Sick Cycle Carousel
by ailhsa23
Summary: It's hard to find the moral high ground when we're all standing in the mud. Written for ga fanfic community's fic-a-thon (2012) on livejournal. Addison/Derek/Mark. Set c. season 3


Her panties are on the board.

Dark as the night you slipped them from her legs into the pocket of your tux, against the harshness of the white notice board in the middle of Bailey's surgical floor. You manage to catch a glimpse of the scene from your hiding place around the corner. You watch as she panics, looking to her person for help, but they both resemble that proverbial deer staring into the headlights of the approaching car.

You turn away as someone else claims them on her behalf, and disappear into the shadows. The numbness creeps through your pores, gnawing slowly at your insides. It tries to resemble the guilt you know you should feel, but for some reason you don't have the energy for.

From above you look down at the cold and sterile place you consider a haven. A familiar face nods up at you while you manage a smile. The one with the sad eyes; someone said that of you once. Now you're most inclined to agree.

Hours hurtle past you like blurs. You stand at a nearby window gazing out at the lightning flickering against a blackened sky. The buzz of your surroundings grows softer and further away from your ears. Your eyes catch a name in the haze. It's the name of her hotel. The one she moved out of your miserable trailer to live in, after she pinned the panties on the board.

A sigh escapes your lips. This wasn't healthy. You've been running in circles for months, playing the same charade – the dutiful husband to the unhappy wife while you both knew that your feelings went far beyond the boundaries of your make-shift marriage bed. Heaven knows you tried, but sometimes she made it so easy for you to slip and fall into the depths. You can't quite decide whether prom night was as lustful as you thought it was, or maybe it was something else. Either way you can't live like this anymore, you need to cut ties with one of them – it was for the best, she would understand.

The guy at the front desk caves as you slip the fifty across the glossy surface, and mutter about being Dr. Montgomery's husband. The words alone taste bitter in your mouth, and the clerk never hesitated to hide his surprise. You suppress a grim smile when he told you which floor and points in the direction of the elevator. You stand resolutely in front of her hotel room door ignoring the voice of reason that screams for you to turn around and head home. But there was no harm in talking; she was your wife after all. You grimace at the word which lost its meaning to both of you. She became an object, the one person who you took for granted. It didn't surprise you that she found out in the end, but the fact that she ran. She was the one who followed you three thousand miles across the country to fix things, because that's what she did.

But she could not fix this.

* * *

__You're doing it again.

You're doing it again, and even if he hates it, he never says.

The late night calls. The silence. The tears. It was as if you were all back in New York, and he came over to take you to a movie just so you won't be alone that night, and the several that followed. The replacement husband.

The freckles on his back mock you as he walks the shower. Somewhere in the fog, it's pulling you toward the present where he makes idle chat about the weather, and you give him a smile that you both know isn't sincere. There's something about this that's different from all the other times. It's hanging in the air after every word that leaves your lips, every look you avoid, and gesture you make. It reeks of shame, and shakes you to the core.

You know you'll never talk about the past, but it sticks to your skin like sweat until it makes you choke. Even then, you refuse to get rid of it because at that moment you have no energy to move. The door clicks shut behind him, and you lie back with your eyes squeezed shut. The steady sound of the water hitting the tiles lulls you, and you drift.

Your limbs are still sore, and one glance at the rumpled sheets reminds you why that is. The scientist in you calls it an unfortunate side effect of rejection, but human emotion is never that clear cut. After all your years, you couldn't quite figure it all out. Both of them hurt you, and yet you're still here. Your brother, the cynic, would scoff at your perceived devotion and call it stupidity.

You didn't expect the tentative knock on the door so soon, but think nothing of it as you rose unsteadily from the bed. Perhaps the room service in this place is better than you thought.

He stands in the doorway, wet from the rain, but you refuse to budge. His soft blue eyes scan your face for a moment then gaze into the room. Somewhere up there, you think the universe is laughing at you, but still you pull open the door to let him in.

The world is shot to hell anyway.

* * *

Something told you not to answer the phone.

Even as her name lights up the screen, and even as you put the pillow over your face, you know you can never escape her. Her name is etched in places you refuse to admit you still have. It crashes against your ribs, and gives you life. You can't go on without it.

Before she could even utter the words, you already know. The way she says your name makes your chest tighten, and you can barely breathe. It's over. The next thing you know, you're on the Red Eye across the country, just so she could be in your arms.

You don't know why you always do this. Why you always come when she calls. Your therapist once told you that you're trying to make up for something. A compensatory mechanism is what she called it. You almost smile at the thought of lying there in her office, while she sits above you with a pad and paper.

Something about this makes you nervous. It's different this time for reasons you can't count. The last time you came, she turned you away. She stayed with the husband who didn't want her, but kept her because he thought it was the right thing. These days, honour was seen through blurred vision – like an old friend you recognised from a distance, but up close you were mistaken.

You love her. As difficult as it is to admit, there it is. You love her, but she hurt you, just as much as you hurt her. Your fist clenches at the thought of the circled date on the calendar you brought home after she told you. The same calendar you found in the trash the day after she left.

_I'm sorry, but I can't do this anymore._

You knock on her hotel room door. She opens it slowly, and one look at her tells you that everything has fallen apart. She needs you to pick up the pieces. You tuck a stray strand of red hair behind her ear and close the door. Her voice is cracked, and harsh. You close your eyes as she tells you about Derek and his lusty intern. She dissolves into tears, and her hands grip the front of your shirt.

_It's okay. I'm here now._

All tears halt as she looks at your face. The next thing you know, she's pushing you down on the bed, knowing that you won't stop her. You hesitate, rolling her over so that she's pinned underneath you. You don't want this to be under the influence of the single malt you smell on her clothes, you want it to be her.

_Maybe it is._

You stand in the shower, letting the hot water beat down on your skin. It's only been a couple of hours since you came, but the tension has risen again and soon you might want to take your leave. Running your hands through your wet hair and wait for the bomb to drop. Deep down, you know she hasn't forgiven you, and in your own way you haven't forgiven her either. You could tell in the way she kissed you, the way you moved within her. Every bit of it was fuelled by anger, driven by an insatiable need to become lost.

You turn the knob on the wall, and the jet of water slows its flow until it disappears. Beyond the confines of the bathroom, you hear a door close. Part of you hopes that after all this, she'd let you take her home. There's nothing left for her here now.

Pushing open the door to the room, you realise that you two aren't alone anymore. Her husband is standing in front of her while she sits with drooped shoulders. In another time and place, this situation would send you running for the hills. Now, you try hard not to laugh as your ex best friend takes the glass of champagne from his wife's stone grip.

_Well, this is awkward._

* * *

**Author's Note:** Beta'ed by the lovely Citron_Presse :) Based on openended's prompt in the ga_fanfic community on livejournal.


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